TOGETHER AGAIN

Walter Harris moved through the supermarket aisles with the quiet purpose of a man who once commanded a kitchen. At seventy-eight he was lean, slightly bowed, but today there was a spring in his step, as though the decades had briefly lifted their weight. His blue eyes, usually softened by time, held a bright, almost youthful clarity. It was their diamond wedding anniversary. Sixty years.

He had been a chef all his working life and knew — as he would happily tell anyone who asked — that Lobster Thermidor was a surprisingly simple dish. The secret lay not in complexity, but in the size and freshness of the lobster, the patience with the sauce, and, most of all, the person you were cooking it for.

Barbara’s favorite.

He paused in the foyer to smooth his tweed jacket, patting the breast pocket out of habit. The shopping list was there, though unnecessary; forty years at The Pearl & Tide Bistro had etched the menu into his bones. But Barbara had always insisted on lists — practical, organized Barbara, who once teased him in the hallway, “Don’t forget the shallots again, Walt, or I’ll have your head on a platter.”

He smiled faintly and headed for the fish counter. “Morning, Henry. How are you today?”

Before the fishmonger could answer, Walter continued, voice bright with contained excitement.

“I’d like your finest lobster. It’s our sixtieth today. Barbara and I have been married sixty years.”

Henry rubbed his hands on his tabard and pointed.

“This one came in fresh this morning. He’s a beauty… but he’s not cheap, Walter.”

“Don’t you worry about the cost, my boy. Wrap him up. I’ll take him.”

Next came Moët & Chandon (well chilled), Black Magic chocolates (orange crèmes, always), new potatoes still dusted with earth, and tender-stem broccoli. Barbara’s favorite.

There was no queue at the checkout. As Walter unloaded his bags, Rosie — the assistant manager he’d known for fifteen years — looked up and smiled.

“Good morning, Rosie my darling. How are you today?” She already knew what was coming.

“It’s the big day,” he said, leaning in conspiratorially. “Sixty years. I’m cooking her Lobster Thermidor tonight. I’ve got the Gruyère and a splash of brandy waiting at home.”

Rosie’s hands paused over the scanner. The village knew Barbara had slipped away nearly two years earlier — quietly, after the long, patient erosion of illness. They knew Walter still spoke of her in the present tense. They knew the Tuesday afternoon slot had once held two people, and now it held only one.

She saw the neatly ironed shirt with frayed cuffs, the faint tremor in his fingers as he arranged the coins. She saw a man holding fast to a reality in which love had simply stepped into the next room.

“It sounds like a feast fit for a queen, Walter,” she said softly, throat tight.

“She deserves nothing less.” He winked, gathered his bags, and stepped back into the January light.

At home the house smelled faintly of lavender polish and old books. Walter worked with the quiet efficiency of muscle memory: champagne in the fridge, chocolates on the sideboard, lobster split and cleaned, its meat folded into a mornay sauce rich with cream, cheese, and a whisper of brandy. He did not light the grill. Not yet.

Upstairs, late-afternoon sun filtered through lace curtains. On the dresser stood the golden-framed photograph: Barbara at twenty-two, Miss Brighton, radiant, bouncy blond curls, high-trust features, smile that could stop a room. Walter sat on the edge of the bed and lifted it gently.

“I’ve got the lobster, Babs,” he whispered. Then, quieter: “I’m sorry about the nights I stayed late at the Bistro. The arguments over holidays when I put the kitchen first. You were right — I should’ve come home sooner.”

He closed his eyes.

The room grew luminous, a warm golden light rising from nowhere in particular. The unmistakable scent of Chanel No. 5 bloomed — thick, sweet, alive. The mattress dipped beside him. A cool hand slipped into his fingers interlacing the way they always had.

“You’re late, Walt,” the voice said — not the thin rasp of her final months, but the bright, melodic chime of the girl he’d first seen on the top floor of The Regent dance hall.

He opened his eyes.

She was there: blue eyes dancing, white silk wedding dress, his own hair dark again, the silver gone. Somewhere distant came the Saturday rush of The Gilded Shell, champagne corks, ocean breeze through an open window.

“I had to get the lobster, didn’t I?” he teased, voice strong and sure.

She laughed — that small catch in her throat she always had when she was truly happy — and leaned in. As her lips met his, the world softened at the edges. No more empty hallways. No ticking clocks. No rain.

“The table is set, my darling,” she said, pulling him gently to his feet. “Everyone’s waiting.”

That evening the sky over the English Channel broke into heavy rain. Rosie sat in her kitchen, unable to shake the brightness in Walter’s eyes. She had lost her own mother two years earlier — sudden, angry, unresolved.

The grief had left sharp edges. Walter’s calm certainty unsettled her in the best and worst way. She grabbed her coat and umbrella.

By the time she reached his gate she was drenched, water streaming down her face. She knocked. The radio played faintly inside. She called his name. No answer.

A neighbor appeared, then an off-duty policeman passing by. The door opened quickly with a piece of plastic. Inside, the house was warm — radiators ticking — yet there was a distinct chill in the air, something beyond temperature.

In the kitchen: two portions of lobster, prepared but uncooked, two crystal flutes waiting.

Upstairs: Walter lay on the covers in his best tweed jacket, hands folded over the golden frame. No trace of pain on his face — only the softest, most peaceful smile.

“He’s gone,” the officer said quietly.

Rosie looked at the empty space beside him on the bed. The air still carried the faintest trace of perfume that might have been imagination, might not.

“No,” she said, almost to herself. “He’s just finally reached the table.”

Weeks later, Rosie stood in Walter’s garden. The “For Sale” sign leaned against the shed wall; Barbara’s roses were erupting in deep, defiant red.

A breeze moved through the eaves.

For a moment she thought she heard the faint clink of flutes meeting in a toast, and a woman’s laughter — bright, melodic — drifting over the wall.

She didn’t know if it was real. She didn’t need to. Walter had promised sixty years.

In the end, he had made sure they would have forever.